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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144893">Knock, Knock</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MultiocularO/pseuds/MultiocularO'>MultiocularO</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We Brothers Three [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Episode: e081 A Guest for Mr. Spider, Implied/Referenced Biting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid!Fic, as in they are children, but def not de//aged, don't WORRY i'm WORKING ON it, not much to say about this fic tbh the next ones will be better i promise, sorry - Freeform, to clarify it's not as bad as the tags make it sound i just want to be safe, unfortunately</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:02:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,174</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144893</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MultiocularO/pseuds/MultiocularO</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>She feels Jon’s little hand, on her skirt, tugging, hears his insistent voice though she can’t make out the words. She’s never really been the comforting sort, but now she wishes she could pat his head or even, God forbid, hug him, but she can’t. She’s not in control of her own body as she walks down familiar, worn streets. </p><p>The words on the pages of the book blend together, the pictures a nasty black smear in her vision. It doesn’t matter. She knows, deep down, what it says. Mr. Spider is not satisfied. Mr. Spider is hungry. </p><p>Knock. Knock.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>We Brothers Three [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663714</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>194</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Knock, Knock</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mortons_Salt/gifts">Mortons_Salt</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Flagrante_Delicto/gifts">In_Flagrante_Delicto</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i am. so very excited about this au? shout out to the jongerry discord for enabling me &gt;:)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It’s nice, in the park. Evelyn had sort of forgotten. The warm spring sunlight and the gentle breeze and the sound of children playing takes some of the bitter sting of life out of her, eases some of the painful ache of age. She closes her eyes, resting back against the bench. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She lets her mind drift, for a few blissful moments, as she savors the heat and peace. Jonathan is only a few feet away, reading away as always. He’s outside, in the sun, and she’s outside, in the sun, and things are… okay. </span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>She allows herself this fantasy for a few moments longer before a shout interrupts her. Slowly, she opens her eyes, scanning the park for the source. Her eyes land on her grandson, standing in the shadow of a tall teen. He’s familiar, probably one of the local youths she’s employed to help a </span><em><span>poor</span></em><span>, </span><em><span>helpless</span></em> <em><span>old woman </span></em><span>with her </span><em><span>shopping </span></em><span>or </span><em><span>housework</span></em><span>. </span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Evelyn stands and crosses the playground. The teen, Daniel or something of the like, holds a small book in his hands. He is not exactly the reading sort and a quick glance confirms that her grandson’s hands are devoid of any sort of literature, so she plucks it from his grasp as soon as she’s within range. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Both children gape up at her in surprise as she flips it around to look at it, wondering what’s caught both her grandson and the teen’s attention so thoroughly. It looks plain enough, a hardback filled with mostly pictures. Each page is adorned with a few simple sentences describing the image. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s monochrome, for the most part, except for brief flashes of color as she flips through.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She means to ask Jon what he’s doing reading this when it’s so clearly below his level. She means to ask what the other boy was doing stealing books from children. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She means to flip the book closed and never think about it again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She does not flip the book closed. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>cannot </span>
  </em>
  <span>flip the book closed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She walks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She feels Jon’s little hand, on her skirt, tugging, hears his insistent voice though she can’t make out the words. She’s never really been the comforting sort, but now she wishes she could pat his head or even, God forbid, hug him, but she can’t. She’s not in control of her own body as she walks down familiar, worn streets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words on the pages of the book blend together, the pictures a nasty black smear in her vision. It doesn’t matter. She knows, deep down, what it says. Mr. Spider is not satisfied. Mr. Spider is hungry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Knock. Knock. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She can’t lift her gaze, so she can only examine the battered streets and, eventually, the rough, aged stone stairs of what she can only assume is a house. They’re smooth and gray, slippery with use and filled with cracks. Grass and other such weeds bloom through said blemishes, a surprising green in the otherwise urban sight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s such a silly thing to focus on, Evelyn reflects as she raises one hand. Her gaze, finally, slips upwards, to a simple wooden door. It’s painted with brown peeling paint, chipped with age. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon’s hand has left her skirt. He’s not on the stoop, standing a few feet back. The older boy has trailed behind them, the entire way, though she’s only just noticed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her knuckles rasp against the rough wood once, twice.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Knock, knock.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And the door opens. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Evelyn Sims does not scream, and neither does her grandson. </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The police notice that Jonathan Sims is missing before they notice that Evelyn Sims is. They call home when he doesn’t show up for school. Upon receiving no response, an officer is deployed to check in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The house is empty of both child and adult, no signs of having been occupied in at least two days. The neighbors have heard nothing, seen nothing. There aren’t many close family friends, and no relatives.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s really a matter of luck that the detective in charge of the case happened to take an unusual route home to avoid some unexpected traffic. It’s just chance that this particular detective has had the honor of returning the youngest Sims to the elder in the past and thus recognizes the head of dark hair on the front steps of an unassuming house. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jonathan Sims, eight years old, enters the deputy’s car quietly. He does not cry, and he does not speak, but he trembles like a leaf. His hair is streaked with cobwebs and, underneath, unnatural grey strands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is no sign of Evelyn Sims. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon doesn’t speak for weeks, afterwards, and when he starts again he doesn’t talk about his grandmother. The case falls to the side, concerns about the placement of the child arise, and the world moves on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Little Jonathan Sims, in lieu of other willing and living relatives, enters the foster care system. He quickly takes on the reputation of a problem child, a label he wears with pride. It suits him better, he thinks, than orphan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows, at eight and nine and ten, that the pitying gazes of well-meaning adults are for victims. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s no victim. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At ten years old, he is placed with the Stoker family. A father, mother, and two sons. Tim is three years older than him, Danny one. Tim is a comfortable sort of mean, the mean of someone who is pretending not to tolerate you, the mean of an older sibling. He’s bigger and older and </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>much wiser at thirteen, already world-wise and ready to impart his knowledge in the form of playful roughhousing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon does not roughhouse, and Jon knows more about the world than Tim, but they tolerate each other. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Danny is nice. He smiles at Jon and loans him shirts and offers hugs and it scares Jon because the nice ones, well. The nice ones are the scariest of all because he always forgets. He forgets, and he thinks that maybe this time it’ll work out, maybe this time he can have a friend. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then his </span>
  <em>
    <span>friend </span>
  </em>
  <span>will rip his journal, or blame him for breaking something, or steal the only stuffed animal he’d bothered to bring from house to house. The last thing his grandmother had bought for him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t really regret biting the boy, though it’d been a shame to have to pack up and move out so soon after changing families. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes Jon a long time to unpack any of his bags in the Stoker household. Kingsley stays packed safely away under a box of photographs and keepsakes, wrapped in a soft grey blanket. He stopped unpacking this bag after the… biting incident. It gets stashed away in the most forgotten corner of whatever room he’s staying in. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Mr. Stoker is a workaholic and Mrs. Stoker is gentle but distant and Tim is mean and big and familiar and Danny is nice and scary and his grandmother is </span>
  <em>
    <span>gone </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Jon?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jon is a problem child, and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>here to stay. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>my tma tumblr is @celui-qui-regard, hmu (:</p></blockquote></div></div>
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